


For Nina

by reafterthought



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Reflection, Religion, drabblechap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-09-19 01:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20323141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reafterthought/pseuds/reafterthought
Summary: [AT] He had clapped his hands before he even realised what he was doing, before he even realised it was impossible, without thinking of the consequences that would crash down upon him. In that moment, it just hadn't mattered. Because he had to save Nina. He just /had/ to.





	1. Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Another drabble-sequence, as I like to call them. In other words, drabble length but together they form a linear timeline and tell an overall story. I typically use prompts challenges for these, and this time it's the 100_prompts challenge on livejournal, prompt table #100-B. Prompts will be in order – though somewhat obscure at times. For example, "immortal" in this prompt is referenced through a small mention of the Philosopher's Stone. :D

His limbs were tied up in strings, stiff and barely mobile and yet moving steading without his violation. They were subtle gestures: tracing out transmutation circles that flowed from his subconscious mind into hair, fur, skin and ground while his lips whispered up a cauldron of both despair and hope.

That soft braid had unravelled and mutated but he could still feel the curls under his flesh hand. That was his ground, as his mind drifted through hundreds of alchemic theories and circles, weaving them into a cohesive net that he pushed, mentally, to his palms. And through all that he whispered; still, he whispered things that made no sense to him – words dictated simply by the pull of his marionette strings. The only words he _did_ recognise were the one he heard: repeated, over and over again by a voice so broken and morphed.

'Let's play…brother.' And that last word echoed through tunnels in his mind.

The voice was unrecognisable to him now, though his heart wailed as it listened and some tears splashed onto the automail hand. It was dim though, and he forced himself to ignore it all; what mattered was what he was thinking now, those alchemic equations he was weaving into a complete transmutation.

A small part of him remembered what had brought them here: the Philosopher's Stone. Maybe, if they had never sought it, they would never have seen such a sad and horrible thing – but, if they hadn't, they also couldn't _fix_ it –

He lifted his hands from the fur, feeling a few strands of brown hair cling to his fingers, and he clapped: a strong, determined, sound that broke through the gentle murmurs of his thoughts. But when he brought his hands down – dictated, still, by those marionette strings driving him – the rhythm broke, and that single, repeated, word became a shout in his ears.

'Brother!'

But his hands had already met their target, despite the grip, tight and sharp, pulling against the puppeteer.


	2. Sway

The world was dull and out of focus, swaying to and fro as though it had lost all sense of balance. There was only one colour to be seen: red – splashes of red that made her/his stomach clench and her/his heart cry out.

It also made her/his feet move towards those splashes, until the overwhelming familiar and warm smell overtook her/him and she/he went closer still. Her/his nose rubbed against the fabric – coarse, and yet somehow soft as well. Words bubbled in her/his throat, feeling so strange, so scratching, and yet at the same time so _normal_.

That hand reaching for her was the same. It looked scary, but also tender and friendly and she/he wanted it to pet her/him until all her/his hair/fur sat smooth on her/his back.

But there were also other smells, and they confused her/him. Something that made him shy away from that other man – the man with the scary face that made her/his heart scream. That made her/him cringe away from the white dust on the floor – the dust that tickled her/his nose and made him want to sneeze as well.

But then that hand was touching her/him, was in her/his hair/fur, smoothing it, and her/his eyelids drooped as a tinging comfort spread through her/his body. Rain fell on her/him and she/he trembled, legs shaking unsteadily and face swaying like a droopy pendulum. Her/his jaw still clutched that cloth in her/his mouth, though now it had torn a little in her/his trembling.

And then there was a tinging too, something that pushed past the strange – almost sick – feeling and made her/him lift her/his head up, staring at the monochromatic face. Those words held no meaning for her/him…and yet, it felt as though they were very important to her/him. And so she/he said them, forced them out even though it felt as though she/he was shoving all the air from her/his stomach out. But the words came out, making her/his ears twitch.

She/he thought she/he remembered somebody else saying them. And somebody else _did_ say them thereafter – a different somebody who sounded as familiar as the red person, except without the familiar smell. His hands came faster than the other's gentle touch – but she/he thought she/he remembered this touch as well, and did not shy away. But those hands weren't reaching for her/him, but for the red person, pulling him away.

A disappointed whine erupted from her/his throat, before that was overcome by the tingling growing ever stronger and her/his vision being blotted with white.


	3. Sticks and Stones

Alphonse grabbed his brother's wrists – too late. They'd already clapped, and Edward collapsed like a house of cards falling inward, like _their_ house had collapsed under the flame. But those things didn't cry, didn't bleed. They didn't have tears struggling to free themselves from lashes, or a small trickle of blood from the edge of mouth.

There was the sound of breathless, insane, laughter, and crashes and bangs above as the roof and door collapsed from two separate causes: the roof because of the alchemic reaction, the door because Brigadier General Basque Grande had just punched it in.

Alphonse could only hear the sounds of his loud voice shouting orders and questions as Nina and Alexander – or whatever they were now – were buried under tiles and mortar. And while his heart screamed, he couldn't cry at all, but just hold his brother in his arms and protect him from the falling roof. Just like he had held his brother that day years ago, drenched in blood and soaked with the knowledge of their failure…

But this time it was different. Or they same. He'd just tried the impossible, because Tucker had said it was impossible, just like getting their bodies back was impossible…

His large armoured frame shuddered as tiles fell upon and around. Shuddered from tears he could not shed and things he wished he could make possible – if not for other doors that had sealed hope shut.

And there was no Edward awake to reassure him. There was only Tucker, still laughing hysterically in a corner, safe from the falling tiles. There was only Basque Grande spitting out curses and orders and questions that nobody could answer. There was only Mustang snapping his fingers and turning the remaining falling tiles into a rain of dust, and Hawkeye, gun bared, trying to persuade him outside with her firm, even voice.

She reminded him of Pinako in a way, and he craned his head up, looked at her, and then followed mechanically.


	4. Museum

'A perfect chimera.' Basque Grande threw down his report. 'Despite the…circumstances, it's too valuable a thing to throw away.

'Sir,' Mustang began. 'With all due respect –'

Basque Grande held up a hand, halting the Colonel. 'I understand Tucker crossed the line in using a human, much less a child, in this. Rest assured he won't escape just punishment.'

The statement was made so clinically that Mustang had to wonder how relative the usage if "understand" was. After all, they had both participated in the extermination of Ishbal – something they never talked about beyond the surface again, and the fact they shared something like that was…disturbing. Particularly disturbing because, while Mustang knew that nightmare kept _him_ up at nights, he had no idea on its effect on his superior. He had no idea whether the sentiments of Basque Grande leaned towards sympathy and disgust…or towards another man they had both known, and bloodlust.

'Is there something concerning you, Colonel Mustang?'

Mustang met his eyes: cold, hard, and lips twitching into a small smirk. 'No, sir,' he replied calmly. 'But the chimera is part child; to place her in such a facility to be examined like a _lab_-rat is –'

'– is unavoidable.' If possible, Basque Grande's gaze hardened further. 'The specimen will need to be examined, and there is no other place in this world for a chimera.' His iron-clad fist clenched, and Mustang's eyes drifted to it. 'You know as well as I there is no known way of reversing such a transmutation; Tucker himself may be the only person able to find one, but that is not an option now, is it?' His lip curled.

'It isn't,' Mustang agreed evenly, trying to fight off the feeling he was being patronised like a child. 'Though it is very – disappointing – to think of the fate of that young child.'

'That is why we are soldiers, are we not?' He waved a hand, this time in dismissal, and Mustang stood with a nod.

'By the way, how's Fullmetal doing?'

It was said with a casual tone, but there was nothing casual about the situation. And no easy way to describe it. 'His condition is improving,' Mustang said finally.

Basque Grande nodded. 'Give him my regards.'


	5. Practical

'Is something the matter, sir?' Hawkeye asked, as Mustang tapped his pen on the desk and stared at the pile of paperwork before him. 'Or shall I assume you are thinking of a new way to avoid doing your paperwork.'

Mustang appreciated his subordinate's dry humour; he really did. 'I am thinking of the unfortunate fate of Nina Tucker,' he replied, 'and to whatever _idiocy_ got Fullmetal into his current predicament.'

He really didn't understand how Fullmetal could have injured his spine and cut off neural signals to both legs – including the automail one – when Alphonse had been protecting him from the falling roof tiles. Just like he didn't understand how the chimera had been relatively unharmed, though also unconscious and yet to awaken, and what exactly had caused the roof to come down.

Basque Grande assumed it was the transmutation that had created the chimera, but Mustang wasn't so sure. Perhaps it was the factor of the Elric brothers being there – because Alphonse at least seemed unsurprised when they'd led a cuffed Tucker and a chimera out.

Which meant that one, if not both, brothers knew about the chimera's creation, and considering how fond they were of young Nina, he doubted they had been pleased.

Logic dictated then –

His pen stopped short.

'Sir?'

'Tell me they didn't,' he breathed, realising what could have happened in that precious breath of time. What they could have tried. His fingers curled into a fist, one that shook as he fought the urge to slam it into something. 'Didn't those idiots learn _anything_?'

But it probably was the most practical thing to try; unsticking two things that had been glued together worked best when it was done early, before the glue set in. And it was Tucker, the expert on chimera research, who claimed it impossible to separate a perfectly created chimera into its constituents – of _course_ he would be ignored.

'Sir?'

But should that count as human transmutation? Or had it just been failure that had backlashed like that?

'I think…' he said hesitantly, as though unsure of the words, 'Fullmetal tried to untransmute that chimera.'

Her amber eyes widened as she too realised what it could mean – and cost.


	6. Over

Alphonse was good – great – at alchemy, but not as great as his brother. That was why, no matter how many times he went through the scene in his head, he couldn’t work out what Edward had done.

All he knew was that a transmutation had occurred, and – presumably – failed. Nina and Alexander were still merged in an unrecognisable glob of a chimera, and no amount of cajoling had given him more information. ‘You shouldn’t have been there anyway,’ was the Colonel’s hardened response to his pleas. _You shouldn’t have had to know_.

Alphonse wanted to punch and kick and cry and scream and work out all his frustrations – but he couldn’t do that anymore. Work out his frustrations through mere physical activities. It wouldn’t affect his body: hardened steel. And it would mean leaving his brother’s side.

His brother still hadn’t woken up. Not properly anyway. He was in and out of things, until a nurse adjusted his drip and he fell back into his deep slumber. In that slumber he’d lie as still as death, but when the drug wore off his mind climbed out from the pit of nothingness into nightmares and pain.

It was heart wrenching to watch him thrash in his restraints, to listen to him screaming about their mother and him and Nina. He tried to hum Trisha lullaby, but it came out dull and metallic and nowhere near as soothing, and there was nothing left to do _except_ watch and listen and think.

_Brother_, he thought to the still form, _what did you do?_

But Edward could not say, so Alphonse had to work it out by himself. But he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_; he didn’t understand why an alchemic reaction would rebound so drastically. It wasn’t human transmutation, because Nina wasn’t dead and Tucker hadn’t had the same problem when he’d done the original transmutation –

But it was human transmutation, in a sense, and Alphonse really couldn’t understand it. A chimera made from a human was still part human after all, and trying to unmerge two closely woven characters was an intricate task in itself – but it seemed all the transmutation had done was rebounded on Edward and the roof…

And Tucker? What did Tucker pay to destroy the life of an innocent soul and dog? Alphonse’s armour shook in surprised rage, confusion and worry. What he needed were answers and reassurance, but for the time being he seemed incapable of getting either of them.


	7. Speak

Things had been chaotic, but now she/he hunched in that little confined place in silence.

Where was Brother? Where was Edward? Alphonse?

Where was Alexander/Nina?

Where was father?

A whine escaped her/his throat at that last thought. Why was the thought of her/his father equal parts terrifying and warm?

Why was there something not quite right about that thought?

She/he settled down, stretching out on her/his stomach. Her/his paws splayed out before her/him.

She/he blinked. Humans didn’t have paws.

Alexander had paws. Nina didn’t have paws.

She/he brought one closer. Looked at it. There were nails, that looked more like Nina’s (smudged in coloured pens, still) than Alexander’s, but the paws were definitely all Alexander.

She/he raised her/his hand and caught. Wavy brown hair that was too dark and colourful and too long to be Alexander’s. But running up her/his arms is white fur, dirtied by soil and powder and dust. Nina’s hair. Alexander’s fur.

She/he lifts a paw, nails and all, to her/his chest. Who’s heart is beating under there? She/he doesn’t know.

Bits of Nina. Bits of Alexander. But where is the rest of Nina? Rest of Alexander?

Who is she/he?


	8. White Noise

The sound of his hands – flesh and automail – slapping together echo harshly in his ears.

He waits, with baited breath. Because it’s been a long time since his transmutations have failed, a long time since simply clapping his hands together and visualising the arrays in his mind hasn’t generated the desired results.

Or perhaps that’s arrogance speaking, because it hasn’t been that long at all. It just feels like it has, when he can’t see his hands in front of his face or the materials he’d been transmuting from or the end result… or even the array he’d used in his mind.

What had he been doing? Why had he been doing it?

It’s pure, desperate instinct is all.

He breathes now, in the aftermath, slowly as though in a bubble bobbing along. The world moves sluggishly.

What’s happened? Has he succeeded? Has he failed?

There’s none of that eerie “Edward” or “big brother” or that desperate tinny of “Ed” or the cutting sharp “Fullmetal”. It’s funny, he thinks, how all the different versions of his address sound so distinct. There’s a couple missing from that list, though. “Shrimp” for one, and he’s glad for it. “Boss” for another. Or even Hawkeye’s “Edward” or Winry’s “Ed” or Granny Pinako’s “beansprout” or Izumi’s “runt” or the weak, doubting “Elric” or “Major” from unknown soldiers.

His thoughts are drifting again.

Where is Nina? And Alexander?

His chest grows tight. He breathes.

The answers all linger out of reach.


	9. Snow Storm

The dorms are quiet. Wind howls outside and Al wonders if he’s just hearing things, hearing noises covering up the echo of Nina’s mangled voice and Ed’s firm clap, in his mind. Covering up the beeping of monitors and the restless sounds of a hospital that never sleeps, as well. Even for Al whose tireless tin doesn’t need to sleep, is not capable of sleep, it’s too much.

The dorms are quiet, at least, until the weather and his own phantoms fill up the empty space. And there are other black holes, he realises, once the howling outside fades – or, perhaps, that’s habituation as well. Regardless, Ed’s travelling suitcase is innocently lying against the bed. Ed’s suitcase with both their alchemy notes and a few texts inside.

Oh why hadn’t he grabbed anything from the library to help out? Or from Tucker’s estate, considering the man had plenty a text on bio-alchemy? As much as a shudder shook through his metal plating at the thought, Mr Tucker would know best how he’d adjusted the basic foundation arrays, how he’d merged a human and an animal together, and how, potentially, one could go about turning it around.

And how could Mr Tucker do that to Nina, to his own daughter?

And Ed had said he’d done it to his wife as well…

And their own father had left them in the middle of the night, without so much as a backward glance. But Winry’s parents had died helping others. Mr Hughes, as important as his job was, always made sure to be there for Elysia and Mrs Gracia. He didn’t think Mr Mustang or any of his team had children, but he’d seen their camaraderie and couldn’t imagine them abandoning their families like that either. And Havoc had little brothers, if he recalled.

That train of thought didn’t occupy him very much either. And he knew why; his soul was itching for his brother back and his mind was itching to crack the conundrum they faced.

He had no way of knowing what circle his brother had used, but he had seen a glimpse of Mr Tucker’s. His memory mightn’t be eidetic like Ed’s, but he might be able to pull something out of it.

It gave him something a bit more lasting to occupy his mind with.


End file.
